


That old sword-play

by jauneclair



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bible verses taken out of context, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Swordfighting, Voyeurism, here is my 4.09 coda fic one month later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10834551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jauneclair/pseuds/jauneclair
Summary: 4.09 coda, in which sparring leads to sex.





	That old sword-play

John Silver's hair is swinging loose and he's grinning like a madman as Flint blocks his parry.

Flint lowers his sword and steps back. "I think we've increased your chances of survival somewhat."

"Somewhat?" Silver returns, slightly breathless.

Flint smiles. Well, he may be grinning like a madman, too.

The sun beats down on their backs, warming the fabric of Flint's dark shirt and biting into the already-sunburnt patch on the back of his neck. Both of them are panting, sweat-soaked, and still grinning. There is an uncomfortable dampness building in the small of Flint's back and in the waistband of his trousers.

He is still looking at Silver and he realizes, after a moment, that Silver's hard cock is visibly outlined by where his trousers cling to his skin.

The roof of his mouth is dry, coated with sand and dust. That is, Flint reasons, the cause for his speechlessness. Surely it must be.

"Captain?"

Silver's brows are drawn together. There is sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat, and he hasn't realized his predicament.

Flint manages to clear his throat.

"Your, ah, you - " he says. He gestures half-heartedly with the sword in his hand, realizes what he's done, and jerks his hand back, staring at his wrist where it connects to his hand and wondering why it's suddenly betrayed him.

Silver glances down - of course, because Flint drew his attention.

"It's normal," Flint adds, quickly, "in the heat of a fight."

Silver plants his cutlass in the sand. Both of his hands rest on the waistband of the trousers and he's looking at Flint like - like he's waiting. Flint just swallows.

"Then, if you don't mind," Silver says, "I'll just take care of it."

Flint's feet root him to where he stands as Silver unlaces his trousers and takes his cock -beautiful, thick, and red - in hand. He watches, silent, as Silver's tanned fingers stroke down the length of his shaft, playing with the head. He listens as the cadence of the moans tripping from Silver's mouth mounts, as Silver is forever unable _to keep his fucking mouth shut_.

Flint wants to move, wants to speak, wants to blink - but it as if he has been turned to stone, so that all there is on this hilltop is one man fisting his weeping cock in front of a statue that can do nothing but look on in dumb disbelief. Like Andromeda chained to the cliff-side, he must not just be transparent to Silver but also naked, waiting for his friend to raise a hand and save him from the prison of his own thoughts.

He manages to lift his eyes away from Silver's cock and to his face, wondering _How have I never dreamed of this before_ , and he's looking into Silver's eyes the moment the other man comes.

In the next moment, Silver whips off his sweat-soaked shirt, but Flint needs to look away as Silver uses it to wipe himself off.

He picks up their swords and the crutch while Silver refastens the boot. The slippery, sandy path down the hill is always more of a challenge on the return, when they are worn-out and Silver is readjusting to the false leg. Flint lends the other man his shoulder where needed; but they journey back to the camp in silence.

* * *

That night, Flint doesn't know which of these two things makes him angrier: that he can't get hard, or that he's thinking of Silver and wanting to get hard at all.

* * *

They spar the next day, but words are slow to flow between. He thinks that, in other circumstances, Silver might prattle on, confident now that his skills were proven yesterday.

Flint is just trying to concentrate on the sword in his hand and the sword in Silver's. And nothing else.

On their way back to camp, Silver pauses on the path and says, "Madi advised me there was a stream hereabouts."

"Did she," Flint says.

"Yes." Silver smiles at him. "She also advised me that we do ourselves no favor with her mother by returning to camp looking like a pair of violent, bedraggled, foul-smelling, well, pirates."

Flint huffs a laugh at this. He can see Madi's intent, but he's sure the words are purely Silver's. "The stream, then."

The stream is where Silver says it will be, even as Flint gives him the benefit of one or two wrong turns that lead them thrashing about on invisible paths through the forest. He wonders if those wrong turns were deliberate - to not make this all seemed so very planned - as Silver removes soap and some clean cloths from the small satchel he carries. He tries to push these thoughts from his mind; he concentrates on pulling off his boots, rolling the his trousers above his knees.

Silver doesn't meet Flint's eyes as he strips away his shirt, his belt, his right boot. Not that Silver should. Not that that is something one does when one is undressing casually, carefully. Silver's sitting on a fallen log to remove the iron boot. There is no motive here, Flint tells himself, other than the sudden scenarios his mind has conjured up. It is the inevitable result of having gone too long without something that his mind seeks to trick him now when the slightest possibility - no, not even a possibility, but a mere _suggestion_ \- of something more presents itself.

Silver rises, sliding the crutch underneath his arm, and steps out of his trousers.

Flint swallows.

He tries to concentrate on the awkwardness that Silver must endure for the sake of simply bathing in this stream, the way he's bearing himself to Flint, the trust and lack of pride it must require for him to position himself so that the injury that he thinks makes him less than whole is readily apparent (and Flint has never, ever thought less of him for it - only more); and it's true, he thinks those things. He feels those things, in the tightness in his chest. But the dryness in his mouth is from staring at the delicate curve of Silver's round ass, and all that pale skin that his trousers concealed.

Silver's waded halfway into the stream by now. The sword-play lessons haven't been for naught - he can at least maneuver well enough with the crutch to navigate his way across the streambed without slipping once. The water rises above the middle of his thighs. Flint is still looking at his ass; but he thinks, if Silver turned around right now, Flint would be able to see his beautiful cock again.

With his free hand, Silver dips his hand into the waters and flicks it back over his head, dampening his hair. The rivulets track down his back, sloping over the curve of his ass and running through that shadowed crevice.

" _Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin_ ," Silver says. He half-turns, his brows raised at Flint. "And bring the soap, would you?"

Flint is - rooted in place. Just another gnarled old thing in the forest. Incapable of forward motion.

"You still mistrust my intentions, I see." Silver turns his head away, so that Flint is left staring at the back of that mop of damp black curls while Silver addresses the other streambank. "I'm sorry about the things that I couldn't - can't - won't say. But I wanted, I hoped that there could be trust between us. In spite of it. That you would trust me…my actions, if not my words, or lack thereof."

"I trust you." He doesn't think Silver hears, the first time. Flint is picking up the soap and wading into the stream. The current tugs at his cuffed trousers as drops his free hand to the small of Silver's back, touching with the lightest of pressures. "I trust you."

Silver - spooks, his eyes darting to Flint's. He cranes his neck around - his gaze dances like scattershot over Flint's face: takes in Flint's lips, his eyes.

The hand that touched Silver's back moves to cup his cheek. Flint tugs him into a kiss; for once, Silver follows his lead without comment or complaint, letting Flint gently swallow him whole.

When they break apart, Flint's hand his still on Silver's face. His thumb brushes across the ridge of Silver's cheekbone. "The Bible," Flint murmurs. "You quoted the Bible."

Silver shoves him, enough so that he nearly topples over. "Is that what you found so arousing?"

His hand is on the bulge in Flint's trousers before Flint understands his meaning. The sound he makes as Silver's fingers ply him is not so undignified as a whimper. But it's close.

"And why are you still wearing your fucking clothes?" Silver grouses, pivoting on the crutch so that he faces Flint fully, and tugs at Flint's belt.

"I'm sorry, but would you have rather me kept you waiting?"

And Flint lets his eyes drop, pointedly, to Silver's own half-hard cock.

"Liar," Silver breathes against his lips, which is a sensation that Flint wants to shudder with. "You were looking at my mouth. You’re always looking at my mouth, captain."

"It has always been a source of" - he groans as Silver palms at him through his trousers - "untold frustration to me."

"Let me," Silver says. His voice is calm but his eyes are a little wild as he fingers at the buttons on Flint's trousers. "Let me."

There is a moment where Flint thinks he will just pick Silver up and rut against him until they're both mindless and shaking with it, right there; but sanity returns, after a moment, and he nods, wordlessly.

Silver spreads their jackets over the ground as Flint removes his shirt and trousers; Flint lets himself be pushed onto his back, but he props himself up on his elbows and looks at Silver between his spread thighs.

"Is your leg - " he begins to ask, only to be answered with a glower, another hard push that makes his elbows slide out from underneath him, and a hard bite to his shoulder.

Flint swears. "You better not do that to my fucking cock."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Silver says, grinning, and then proceeds to bite and kiss and lick his way down Flint's chest. And if he'd thought Silver's mouth frustrating before - well. The new evidence of Flint's _frustration_ lays against his stomach, flushed red and hard.

Silver pauses once his line of kisses arrives at Flint's stomach. His fingers are pressed into the curves of Flint's hipbones, and for a moment, he just stares, biting his lip.

"You've never done this before," Flint realizes, reaching up to touch his cheek.

Silver looks up, seemingly startled. Then he smiles.

"I've never been a pirate king before, either," he says, and then he's kissing along Flint's length.

Flint gasps, hips jerking upwards. They want to chase the scratch of Silver's beard along his cock, against the soft skin on the inside of his thighs. He's never - that's not something - it feels so new. Maybe it is. He moans his praise and writhes as Silver's hands press his lips down - and he doesn't give a fuck if Silver's never done this before, if his mouth hasn't perfected this like it has so many other things - it feels new and it feels right and it has Flint's whole body flushed with the heat of it.

He cups Silver's cheek, mesmerized by the sight and feel of his cock there, and Silver moans before swallowing him down.

It's over embarrassingly fast - one moment his hands are fisted in Silver's curls, tugging him closer, and the next he's coming with all the force of a broadside down Silver's mouth - and Flint raises his head and is about to apologize, except that Silver's head and all those damn curls are pillowed on Flint's thigh, and Silver's snaked one hand down to stroke at himself.

He could watch this all day - Silver's mouth open, as needy sounds drop out of it, his body rocking into his hand, his eyes squeezed shut, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. But Flint says, hoarsely, "Come here."

Silver's eyes fly open and he stops, for a moment, staring at Flint. Then he's crawling up Flint's side, and Flint is taking him in hand, stroking over the length of Silver's cock. Silver presses his face against Flint's shoulder, panting, open, and Flint trusts him but he doesn't trust himself to say the words he wants - so he uses other words, like _"Good boy"_ and _"That's it, John, yes,"_ and trusts that Silver understands.


End file.
